The Heart of Sherlock Holmes
by bethanyyerinn
Summary: A Johnlock. Everybody knows that John isn't doing well after the fall, but what about Sherlock? A 1st person POV fic from Sherlock's perspective about how he feels after Reichenbach.
1. The Texts Begin

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Post Reichenbach. I've done one before, but this one is really different. **

**I've never written a Sherlock 1****st**** person POV, so I'm trying to really make it feel like Sherlock's head. Because of this, I will have large sections in parentheses, because I think that Sherlock thinks more than one thing at once. So large parenthetical areas are side-thoughts that Sherlock has as he is thinking of his main train-of-thought. I will try not to make it too confusing.**

* * *

I knew I would be able to trick everyone into thinking I killed myself. That was, honestly, quite simple. People do not usually deny the evidence of their own eyes. People never look deeper. People are fools, and thus, I knew I would fool everyone. That wasn't a problem.

I also knew that most people would believe that I was a fraud… but I had a feeling John wouldn't. For some reason, he had _faith_ in me. Stupid of him, really—there's no person on the planet that deserves faith. I, no matter how regretfully, am human. I do, every once in a while, make a mistake. Though I will never admit that out loud, you can be sure of that. And when that mistake is made, someone gets hurt. Because of _feelings_.

(Just thinking about other people's _feelings_ and how much they are affected by them makes me smirk to myself. Divorcing myself from emotions was the best thing I ever did. It's not that emotions are _entirely_ horrible. Positive emotions are… well, I don't mind them very much. They are distracting, that's for certain, but if I could feel only positive emotions, maybe the small distraction they cause would be worth it. Maybe. Depending on the reason for feeling them. But the real problem is that pleasant emotions are the precursor to unpleasant emotions. You can't feel disappointment without faith. You can't feel sorrow without joy. You can't feel hate without passion. And so, I must avoid the positive emotions the same as the negative, because it's the negative emotions that are the true distraction. When you feel disappointment or sorrow or hate, they swallow you whole, keeping you from being able to think at all. I just can't risk feeling those emotions, keeping me from thinking properly. And so I separated myself, and I don't miss it. I hardly even remember how it felt, most of the time.)

And I knew that if everyone else was fooled, then Moran would be fooled, and I could search for him without him knowing I was even alive to search.

Everything was going exactly as I planned. I lived with my contacts from the homeless network.

(It may sound horrible, but it really isn't. I just can't stay in one place long, it's too risky. I don't care about comfort, so that isn't a problem. I was warm or cool enough when I needed to be, and if I wasn't, I ignored it. I got bored often, which was another reason why I moved a lot. If anything, it was nice to have no permanent settlement. When I got bored, nobody got angry when I became restless and left suddenly. And I was never obligated to come back after I left. Really, the only annoying thing about the whole arrangement was the clothes I was forced to wear. Ratty pale wash jeans, tee shirts advertising music groups I didn't actually waste my time listening to, thrashed trainers. I didn't think I really cared what clothes I wore before, but I missed my old suits now. They were back at 221B. But I kept wearing my coat. I couldn't give it up. I felt—no, not _felt_, but… I just needed to wear it. Let's leave it at that.)

I was following Moran, the sniper that was the reason for this whole rouse in the first place.

(He didn't know I was tailing him—of course not, the idiot. Just because he worked for a genius didn't mean he had half a brain himself. Even so, he knew _someone_ was tailing him, it seemed, because he was always just a step ahead of me. I could have disposed of him a dozen times by now, but I had to be careful. I didn't want to be caught.)

But there was one thing that wasn't going to plan. I was sure everything was going to go exactly as I intended… but then, I had never been able to predict John's behaviour the same as I can others.

John was supposed to believe I was dead. John was supposed to mourn for a short time—because that's what people do, I suppose, even though it's a waste of time and energy—and then he was supposed to move on with his life. I admit that I didn't want him to forget me entirely. I wanted to have the chance to go back to him eventually. But he wasn't supposed to be deeply affected by what happened.

But I was wrong.

I knew John would be upset. Obviously. Any person but me would be—but he had to believe I was dead. That's why he had to watch. And I knew he'd be mad at me for doing it. I knew he'd probably have to go back to that stupid therapist of his, Ella. No, none of that was good, but it was better than him being dead.

But John was supposed to just be sad… but instead, he was _broken_. John was affected by seeing me die in a way I never could have guessed. He was so thoroughly in mourning over what had happened that he was almost in denial.

I realised this when I got the first text. It came a month after the fall.

Sherlock, I need you to not be dead. – JW

I couldn't believe my eyes. John was _texting_ me? My first instinct was to respond. It took me a moment to realise that I couldn't. I set the mobile down on the ground, but I kept glancing at it. Why? I don't know. But him texting me… it caused an unpleasant sensation in my chest. I ignored it. I told myself I was only watching it so I could make sure nobody was going to steal it.

And then, a minute later, I got another text. I picked it up so fast I almost dropped it.

How the hell could you do this? You just live to torture me, don't you? – JW

Barely a second after I finished reading it, another came.

LIVED to torture me. God, what's wrong with me? You're dead. Texting you won't bring you back. – JW

And before I even finished reading that one, the next was received with another urgent _pip_ from my mobile, and then two more.

But it doesn't feel like you're dead some days. Sometimes, I think you're just playing some stupid joke on me. Trying to be clever. Maybe you'd call me stupid for saying it. I wish you'd call me stupid. It'd mean that you're alive to call me it. – JW

It's why I've stayed at 221B. So that if you need to find me, you will. Then again, you could probably find me no matter where I am. – JW

Call me stupid, Sherlock. Just send a message and tell me I'm an idiot. That's all I need. – JW

This time, no more messages came in as I stared at the messages I'd already received. I couldn't text John. I knew that. But I wanted to. God, I wanted to. I ignored that urge too. I couldn't waste my time wanting to talk to John when I needed to deal with Moran.

But John, _Doctor_ John Watson, was denying the evidence of his own eyes in favour of deluding himself into believing the impossible? That wasn't like John. He must not have been doing well. Maybe if I just stopped by—

No. I almost hit myself over the head at the thought. What was I thinking? I couldn't go _see_ John, not even if John didn't know I was there. It was a stupid thought.

Me. Having stupid thoughts. Maybe living on the streets was affecting me.

But, luckily, John didn't text me again that night, so I was able to distract myself with plotting.

In fact, John didn't text me for a long time. Another month passed before another came.

You know, if this is a joke, then sod you. It's not funny. – JW

Damn, I'm texting again. I told myself I wouldn't. But it's a bad day. – JW

I was morbidly intrigued. A 'bad' day? What did that mean? I had heard that terminology used by drug addicts, or mental patients. Both of those things were not John. So what did he mean?

Another month passed, on the dot, like the last time. This time it was four all in a row, in rapid progression, like he kept pressing 'send' and realising that he had more to say.

I was in a taxi and I saw someone who looked like you. Or, at least, he had your coat and your cheekbones. – JW

Is commenting on your cheekbones weird? Maybe. But even a blind man could feel that you have good cheekbones. I'll tell myself it isn't weird. – JW

But anyway, he couldn't have been you. He was in jeans and trainers! You wouldn't be caught dead in that. – JW

Dead. Wow. That was bad phrasing. Let me just stuff my head in the blender now. – JW

I blinked down at the texts when I finished reading them. John had seen me! God, I couldn't risk that. I just had to go to the grocery today for food, so I didn't take a back route like I should have because I didn't think it was necessary. I couldn't do that again. John seeing me once was bad enough.

(He wasn't really going to stick his head in the blender, was he? Maybe I needed to go check on—NO! What was wrong with me?)

Then came three more quick texts with barely a pause between them.

We're out of milk. That's why I was out. I never got it. I saw the man that looked like you and I had to go home before I had a panic attack. I made the cabbie slam on the breaks and I ran out without paying. You'd have laughed at me for being so sensitive, probably. - JW

But anyway. Still out of milk. - JW

Maybe you should grab the milk and come home already, you prat. – JW

I almost smiled at that. In a dark way. It wasn't funny, not really. But I could just imagine the way that John would say it, and thinking about John's very specific, very unique mannerisms made me smile. Even though it shouldn't have. Smiling. A waste of time.

There was a longer break before he sent one more for that night.

I got the milk. I'd be waiting a long time if I waited for you to get the milk. You didn't even get milk before, let alone now. – JW

And no more texts came that night.

And I was angry at myself for being disappointed about that.

* * *

**Hey, hope you liked the first chapter. The next should be coming soon. In the meantime, if you like post-Reichenbach fics, I have one called The First Date that you might enjoy. =] **


	2. The Visit

Getting texts from John continued to be a monthly thing. It was like one day every month, he would remember me, and then he would have to say something. It was like that for a whole year after I had to leave.

I was hoping it wouldn't take me this long. I thought I would catch Moran faster. What was wrong with me?

But I knew what was wrong. I was distracted. Every day, I would read through all the texts I had gotten from John since he started them in the first place, and I would think about what he must have been doing when he wrote them.

(When he wrote this one, he was probably in his chair. And with this one, it was sent late enough he was probably already in bed. Maybe he was sitting up with his legs crossed, or maybe he was lying down, sleeping on his left side the way he does. Or at least, the way he would on the days when he would fall asleep on the couch after a long day of work, or after a case that'd taken a few days without sleep to finish. And sometimes, when that happened, I would just look at him. At the way his lips would part just slightly, and how I could only just hear him breathing. How he would occasionally smack his lips, or mutter something. Once, I thought he said 'Sherlock', and I don't know why, but that made me smile.)

And every day, I wanted more and more to see him. His texts worried me, maybe the casual ones even more than the angry ones, but there was about a 50/50 split of both.

Things like:

Would you just come home already? – JW

I'm sick. Not that you'd even care if you were here, but I've got the flu. Mrs Hudson won't stop hovering. You'd have yelled at her by now. – JW

Sod you. – JW

I'm better again. Thank god, I was close to killing Mrs Hudson. She kept moving your things, telling me to clean them away. But I keep everything as it was. It's easier to pretend you're alive with your stuff here. – JW

Damn you, Sherlock. I need you to be alive. I'm begging you. Just come home to me. – JW

But then, two weeks after a year had passed since the fall, I got another text. It was two weeks early and it was longer than any I had gotten before.

I don't get why the hell you would have jumped, Sherlock. You thought you were the lord himself, for god's sake. But more than that, I don't get why you could have done that to me. I was stupid enough to think you actually cared about me. If you cared about me at all, you wouldn't have done this. You wouldn't have left me alone. – JW

I stared at that message for a long time.

And I have to be honest. I can't say that I didn't feel anything when I read those words. I _felt_ more than I had probably felt in my entire life. It was uncomfortable, and I really hated the feeling, but I didn't know how to hold it in like I usually would. It was bursting in me, and it hurt, it hurt badly. Worse than anything I'd ever felt.

John was in pain because of me. He thought that I didn't care about him.

Which was probably the stupidest thing he had ever said. Of course I cared! Why didn't any people pay an ounce of attention to anyone else? John was the only thing in the world that mattered. Who else mattered when you had a friend like John Watson? How could I be upset that nobody in the world actually likes me with someone like John in my life?

I scoffed at my own thoughts. When had I ever even thought about the fact that people don't like me? When did that start to matter? Feelings must be contagious. I care about one thing, and I care about everything else too.

(And I knew that was true. All this caring started when I first met John. John was always interesting, from the very beginning. When I made my deductions about him and waited for him to tell me to piss off, he told me that it was amazing. He thought my mind was brilliant. So from right there I liked him, because he appreciated my brain the way it deserved. And he loved adventure, and he was strong and he had a temper that was most entertaining when ignited. But then, he also showed that he was a kind man, one who cares. There was just so much _to_ John, so much to learn about and to learn to lo—to _appreciate_.)

And so as I looked down at that message for _hours_ and felt the physical pain of what I had done to John, I realised I had to see him.

It wasn't safe. It was, frankly, a stupid thing to do. Anyone half as clever as me knew it was a really moronic thing to do, but I didn't care anymore. I'd gone a little mad.

(Or maybe a little normal, since _normal_ people make stupid choices for the sake of love—or, not _love,_ more companionship. Concern.)

So even though it was three in the morning, and John had probably gone to sleep, I got up and started toward 221B. I wasn't far away, because I could never bring myself to really leave him. Even though he thought I did.

I climbed up the fire escape and I balanced myself outside his window. It was just barely ajar. I looked closely through the glass and waited.

And already, something was horribly wrong. I remembered what John looked like when he was sleeping. Peaceful, mostly stationary and quiet.

This wasn't how John slept. He was thrashing around every other moment, moaning things louder than he usually would. His eyes were screwed tightly shut.

A nightmare, obviously. But I hated to watch it.

I listened carefully.

"No, please, don't," he was murmuring. "Sherlock, you—you can't. Don't. Don't leave me."

My breath caught painfully in my throat in a way that was almost unfamiliar to me because I hadn't felt it very many times in my life. The last time was when I was on the St Barts roof, looking down at John and telling him I was a fraud. Watching John panic. And the time before that… it'd been years and years since then.

So my tears were only for John.

But I wouldn't cry, not today. I told myself that much. Me seeing him was merely an experiment. I just needed to know he was okay.

But he wasn't okay. And it was my fault.

The constricting feeling in my throat closed even tighter as I watched him whimper through his nightmare.

And then he shot up out of bed, eyes wide open, and looked to my window. "Sherlock!" he yelled.

I panicked. So as he clumsily padded to the window, I swung to the side, flattening myself to the wall while trying to keep my grip on the building.

The window opened all the way. "Sherlock!" he repeated again, looking around, but not actually at me. His eyes were too wide, and the bags under his eyes were too deep. He was shaking. I had to bite my lip as my stupid, betraying emotions tried to spill out onto my face.

"I saw you, dammit, now show me your stupid face so I can hit it!"

I refused to even breathe.

John's head hung out the window for another moment, and then he withdrew it slowly. The moment he was inside, I pulled a small mirror out of my pocket and angled it so that I could look at John through it.

And John continued to stare out the window for another moment before a sob choked out of his throat. Then he fell to the ground heavily and grabbed his head with his hands, tugging at his hair, and started to weep.

"Damn you, Sherlock!" he gasped out between sobs.

And what I did next, I really couldn't explain to you. Everything I've ever done has been completely controlled. I know exactly what emotions I am allowed to feel and what ones hinder me.

But this time, I had no control over what I was feeling. I just broke for that man. The mirror slid out of my hand, hitting the ground a story down with a shatter. And I swung back around and leaped in through the still open window.

* * *

**I'm sorry for the suspense. Except I'm not sorry. =] **


	3. Dreams or Reality?

I put my arms around the still crying John, who was now in a fetal position.

"John, I'm right here," I crooned, still feeling a stiff pain in my throat and a stabbing behind my eyes. John. He was hurting because of me. _My_ John. I did this to him.

John had stilled so he felt more like a statue than a person. And then I backed away from him, just the slightest bit, and he looked up at me.

"Sherlock," he said. He looked even worse from up close. "I must be asleep."

"Of course not, idiot. I'm right here."

"No, you can't be here. Because why would you have left me alone for so long if you were alive? I already decided tonight, Sherlock. You never cared about me. And sure, I realised months ago that I'm hopelessly in love with you, and I don't like the thought that you never cared when I love you this much, but I've accepted it."

"In love with me?" I asked, sounding honestly stupid for probably the first time in my life.

"I thought you were a genius," John scoffed. "Of course I am! I always was. I just always denied it. But now it's too late to tell you. Not that it'd matter, seeing as you never cared."

"John," I said sternly. "I do care. I've always cared. You're the reason I stayed alive at all, John. Because who needed me but you? What was the point of staying around other than for you? God, you all think I _actually_ don't feel anything! That's been the greatest of my feats, John. Convincing everyone that I don't feel. I even convince myself, sometimes. But John, you are the world to me. You really are. And if I had realised how badly I was going to hurt you… I'm sorry, John. I'm sincerely sorry for what I've put you through."

I couldn't believe the words that were coming out of my mouth—

But yes. Yes I could. Because, for once, they were the truth.

John was looking up at me with those eyes that usually looked brown from afar, but that were actually blue up close.

Then he reached his hand up to my face, one finger out, and pressed it just under my cheek and brought it back to his face. There on his finger was a little bead of moisture. Then he looked back up to me.

"Sherlock, you're crying."

I rolled my eyes and rubbed harshly at my face. "An astute observation, John."

John actually gave me a half of a smile. "I'm still pretty sure I'm asleep, but while I'm here with you, having a good dream for once…" And he leaned into me. He took a deep breath through the nose, and then hummed happily. It made me smile. Without meaning to, like my body instinctually knew what to do, I put both my arms around him.

I really want to say that it was a waste of time, and that I didn't know why I felt the need to see John, and that all his emotions were too distracting for me. But in truth, holding John was the best thing I had done in a long, long time. I couldn't even deny it. My emotions still wouldn't go back into check. They were raging everywhere, and I was feeling intense hurt and joy at the same time. It still was a little painful, feeling so much. Even the happy emotions.

And without even meaning to, I whispered things into his hair. "I'd never really leave you. How could you not know that, you moronic man?", "I've missed you.", "Life's rather dull without you around, you know.", "John, I'm sorry.", "You're having nightmares again. Does that mean you're seeing that therapist again? I don't like her. She doesn't understand you like I do."

This went on for a long time. The sun was starting to rise before either of us moved.

And then John spoke again. "There's no way you're really Sherlock. You're being too nice."

I was going to tell him, again, that it was really me.

But then I remembered that I had to leave again. I couldn't stay, not with Moran still out there.

I couldn't believe the pain in my chest when I realised what I had to do. I couldn't find my voice at first, but it was the only way. "Y—yes. You're right. You're dreaming."

"I knew it. God, it's going to be horrible when you're still gone in the morning. You know, it's been bad, Sherlock. I'm kind of lost without you."

I sighed and for some reason, it sounded oddly like a sob. "I'm lost without my blogger too. I've told you that before."

"But you weren't serious."

"Yes I was."

John looked up to me again, his eyes red and puffy and miserable. "I wish you were really here. I text you sometimes, you know. It's silly, but I can't help it."

"And I've gotten all of them. And cherished all of them."

I helped him up from the ground and put him back into bed, on his left side like he likes. I put the blanket back over him.

"I love you, Sherlock," he murmured up at me.

I took a deep breath and shut my eyes. If all my other emotions hurt, then this was pure agony. Heart surgery sans anesthetics.

I looked down at him again, ready to say something, but his eyes were shut and his lips parted and his breathing steady. He'd fallen asleep again.

And so I fled out the window, shutting it as I went.

* * *

**I'm sorry if this gives you sad feels. It gave me sad fees to write. It'll get better, I promise. The "comfort" in "hurt/comfort" will be here at some point. I hope you like it so far. If so, or if you despise it, or if you want to tell me about your day or about how you're mad at me for making you have Reichenfeels, then tell me so in a review. Thanks a ton in advance! =]**


	4. Sebastian Moran

That day, I had a realisation that I had never even considered before.

Not letting myself feel what my absence was doing to John was part of the reason I wasn't already back.

I hated to admit that I was… well… a tad bit less than completely correct… but in this one case, it seemed love was a motivator more than a hindrance (though, it was still a little bit distracting, since I felt as if I was thinking half as fast as usual). Because when I got back to the spot I'd been sleeping in the past three days, I couldn't shut my eyes. I couldn't stop moving. Different versions of the exact same thought were going through my head.

Go see John.

Go help John.

Go comfort John.

Keep John safe.

Kill Moran so you can see John.

John John John John John. It was almost hurting my head, his name was bouncing through my brain so hard.

He told me he loved me.

I felt like a teenaged girl because that mattered to me so much.

I felt stupid for caring… but somebody told me they loved me. Nobody loves me. I just got used to that. And in return I didn't love anyone either.

But now John loved me. Which meant… what was I supposed to do in return?

A pip from my mobile made me stop walking for a moment, fumbling the device in my haste to get it out.

I dreamed you were in the flat last night. It felt so real it's eerie. It almost smells like you. – JW

A minute later…

No, it definitely smells like you. – JW

Sherlock, what the hell is going on? – JW

Answer me. I'm not taking silence as an answer anymore. – JW

I took a deep breath and was somehow able to stop my fingers from pounding the screen of my mobile to respond and I shoved it into my pocket. I started to walk faster, my other hand resting on the gun in my coat pocket.

No more stalling. I didn't care if I was caught. I needed Moran gone so I could see John. Who cared if Scotland Yard wanted me for murder? Who cared if aliens wanted me for probing? John, someone who actually _loved_ me, needed me. I couldn't leave him waiting, not any longer.

Sebastian Moran was in London, luckily. He sometimes left, but today was a lucky day. Because I was in such haste to leave that I didn't actually check the schedule I'd made that said where he was on what days before I went for him.

It almost seemed too easy. The flat, which was small and really couldn't have occupied anyone else (and there was nothing along the lines of condoms or alcohol or drugs or anything feminine at all in sight, so it didn't seem he had any whores last night, which he did sometimes) was empty except for him. He was standing in his tiny kitchen, microwaving popcorn. There was no gun in sight—most people don't carry around weapons while making snacks, but with a man like Moran, you really couldn't be too careful.

So basically, he was the easiest target I had ever seen.

(Even though he was a sniper that worked for a criminal mastermind, he was still just a man. And Sherlock Holmes can handle a mere man. Why had I waited so long anyway? Had I just been afraid to go through with it? Had I almost enjoyed my privacy for the past year? Was I afraid to face John? Maybe all of it. Both fearing and enjoying were things I usually avoid. I feel like I'm not working properly.)

And so, I just aimed through the window and shot him right in the head. And it worked. I had enough of my mind with me to think of a back route to get out the area before the authorities arrived anywhere near the scene of the crime.

So easy. It's like I was being dense on purpose. And maybe I was, before I realised what bad of shape John was in.

I got another text at some point during the run.

I'm being stupid. You're dead. What the hell is wrong with me? – JW

I wanted to text him back _so badly,_ but he deserved to have things explained in person, so I kept myself from sending anything.

I caught a cab and parked in front of 221B. What was I supposed to say? Did I knock or just walk in? I really didn't like feeling unsure like this. I just didn't know what to do.

And that was when Mrs Hudson walked out of the flat and saw me standing there outside.

And her eyes crossed and she fainted.

Luckily, I leaned forward and caught her before she hit the ground. I let myself into the building and carried the woman up to her room. I had never actually been in her flat before. It was as you'd imagine it to me. Feminine, smelling like every candle and perfume ever manufactured, with too many doilies and a tin of biscuits on the counter. I took the tin. John liked biscuits. Would that be a good peace offering? I didn't know, but it wouldn't hurt to try, would it?

This time, I continued to think in Mrs Hudson's flat. John couldn't accidentally walk in there. So I paced and paced, wondering what to do, what to say.

I'd thought about it in the past, except before I figured I would just walk in, pretending like I'd popped out for a smoke or something, not been gone a year.

But now that I had seen what John had been going through, that didn't seem appropriate. This whole 'caring' thing was fairly new to me, but I didn't want to make things worse by being insensitive.

If only I actually knew how to be sensitive.

But that was exactly when I heard something smash upstairs.

"Damn it!" I heard bellowed by what was absolutely John's voice.

At that, I couldn't stay down here, so I ran out of Mrs Hudson's flat and burst in the door to 221B.

* * *

**More suspense, I know, I'm an arsehole. But at least it's an emotional break, right? Sorry for the somewhat boring chapter, I had to have a transition into the good stuff. The next chapter will be much better. I'm not sure if I will only have one more chapter, or if I will do more than that yet. I think it depends on the reception I get on what's already been written.**

**But anyway, thanks for reading so far. If convenient, review (or favourite or whatever you want) this story. If inconvenient, do it anyway.**


	5. Reunions and Confessions

There was a broken tea set on the ground. There was no liquid around the spill, so I assumed he hadn't actually made the tea yet. He was so wrapped up in his own moment that he didn't see me walk in.

He looked down at the mess in front of him.

"Damn it!" he said again, kicking a shard. "First the damn dream, and then the telly, and now you," he accused the tea cup he'd kicked. "One bad thing happens, and then a million more have to happen just to spite you. What do you have to say for yourself?"

And I planned to be nice. I really did. But instead, this bubbled out of my throat: "You're talking to inanimate objects now, John? Bad sign."

Just like last night, he went stalk still, and then he slowly looked up to me.

"Same outfit too!" he said. "When the hell did I fall back asleep?"

What was I supposed to say? I told him he was dreaming last night because I thought it would take a lot longer to handle Moran. But now I was here.

"Are those biscuits?" John asked.

I held up the tin and nodded.

"Well, if I'm already having this damn dream again, might as well enjoy it while I can." He came forward and opened the tin, nibbling on one. "Wow, this even tastes good in dreams. Weird. But honestly, my dream-imagination is horrible. Sherlock would never bring me food."

"Well I did," I said.

"Yeah, and you also came in through my window and comforted me for hours. Uh huh."

Like I had figured would happen, letting in my emotions just made them get worse and worse, because now I found myself angry. Who with, I didn't know. With John for thinking I was such an arse? At myself for _being_ such an arse? But John really had no faith that I could do something nice and that bothered me a lot.

Faith. Something I used to scorn. Someone not having it _bothered_ me. Something was definitely happening to me. For better or for worse, I didn't know, but I was changing.

"John…" I muttered, and something in my voice struck John, because his sarcastic smile melted away and he looked up at me seriously. I put my hands on his shoulders. "Do you remember when you used to say that you believed in me?"

John smiled just barely. "Of course."

"You seemed to think I could do anything. Which was silly, but still. If you really think that highly of me, then don't you think it's possible I'm really here?"

John backed away, shaking his head. "Oh, no, none of that. I don't need to get my hopes up." John went back into the kitchen to clean up the broken mess.

"John…"

"No, I'm just going to finish this stupid dream so I can wake up and be alone again. Stop torturing me."

"Will you listen to me?" John went about what he was doing, and now I really was getting mad. "_Listen_, John!"

John jumped when my voice rang loudly through the flat, dropping the shards he had begun to pick up with a hiss. He looked down at his hand. He had cut himself. He sighed heavily.

"Damn it," he muttered.

"John, let me take care of it."

John looked up at me and rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't do that either. Help me like that."

I ignored the comment and came forward, cleaning the cut, checking for shards in it, and then wrapping it up with part of my tee shirt. I felt John's eyes on my face the entire time I did all of this, but I kept myself from looking, because I knew that once I met his eyes, I wouldn't be able to look away.

When I finally finished though, I looked up and met his eyes, which were wide again.

"This feels real," he finally said.

"Even though you think I'm incapable of being useful in any way?" I scoffed.

John smiled dryly. "You're plenty useful, Sherlock. But kind? No, you aren't kind." I felt a frown deepen on my face and John actually smiled. "What, since when have you cared about people thinking you're nice?"

"Being away from you has made me care about a lot of things I didn't used to, John."

John continued to look up at me, his mouth open like he was about to say something.

"Do people feel pain in dreams?" John finally asked, his finger grazing his covered wound.

I didn't think I needed to answer the question, so I just kept looking at him. I saw as recognition, as understanding made his eyes start shining.

"Christ, it's really you, Sherlock."

"I've been trying to tell you that since three o' clock this morning."

John's eyes widened even further so it looked like they might fall out of his face. "You—you were here. This morning." I nodded. "I really saw you outside my window."

I gulped, though I wasn't sure why I felt nervous. "I had to see you," I told him. "Your texts were worrying me."

John's breathing increased. "You've been getting the texts."

He was obviously in shock. I wasn't sure what to do about it. Just let him work it out in his excruciatingly slow manner and wait with him?

"Sherlock!" he finally yelped, throwing his arms around me. Then, a second later, he backed up. "Sorry, you don't do hugs," he muttered. I could tell he was trying to keep himself under control. His lip was quivering and there was moisture in his eyes that he wasn't allowing to fall. His fists were bunched in what was soon going to be fury. I was prepared to get hit at least once.

"Today, I do," I said, and I was the one that put my arms around him. He stayed still for a moment, not seeming to understand what I was doing, but then he melted in my arms and held me back, squeezing me tightly.

"God, Sherlock," he moaned, and finally his body started wracking in the sobs he had been desperately trying to control. And I was feeling that same feeling as this morning, like I might cry too. But unlike this morning, I wasn't going to, not this time. "You're alive. You're actually… actually…" He froze, and then he shoved at me, making me let go. "You're alive," he said again, making it sound more like an accusation this time. "How are you alive?" Sherlock didn't know how to explain that one, since it was a long story, but then John quickly changed track. "You've been alive all this time and you never came back until now?!"

"I can actually explain tha—"

"You _prat_! Where have you been? Why didn't you ever come back?"

"John, I couldn't—"

And that was when John gave me the hit that I was expecting. Even with my mind only working on half-power, I was prepared enough for the hit that I didn't fall over.

"Are you done with your temper tantrum now?" I snapped. "Are you going to let me speak?"

John glared up at me, but then nodded.

"There was an assassin that would kill you the moment that he realised I was alive. I had to kill him before that could happen."

John had looked ready to retort anything I was going to say, but apparently what I actually said wasn't even close to what he was expecting, because his mouth flapped open and shut stupidly a few times.

"An assassin?"

"Yes, John," I said impatiently. "So coming back would have killed you. And you had to believe I was dead for Moran to believe it, so I couldn't tell you I was alive. But now he's gone, and I'm here."

John stayed silent for a long time.

"You stayed away… to protect me."

"It's why I jumped at all, John. Moriarty was going to kill you, so I jumped."

"But… you're alive. How?" The conversation was getting rather circular.

"That doesn't matter. But do you remember what I said last night?"

"You said… that you cared about me."

"And? Come John, you must listen better than that."

"That… that you stayed alive for me. That… well, I think you said I was…"

"The world to me," I finished when John was taking too long. "I didn't lie to you last night. I've been reading your texts and wishing so much that I was here with you. And now I can be."

"You're different," John said. "Different than I remember."

"Yes, well, like I said before, being away changed me. I… well, I missed you."

John smiled a little. "It probably doesn't need saying, but I missed you t—" Then his mouth fell open.

"What?" I asked.

"I… do you remember everything I said to you last night?" he asked me.

I looked at him with pursed lips. "How much do you think I've changed, John?"

John rolled his eyes. "Right, you're still a know-it-all." He paused, looking nervous. "Well… I said some stuff last night that I didn't mean. You know, about…"

"About being in love with me?" I asked steadily.

I saw John gulp. "Yeah… yeah, that. I was tired and thought I was sleeping… pretend I didn't say anything."

I looked into his eyes, watching him get more and more nervous as I stayed silent. I tried not to be cruelly entertained by it. And so I took a step closer, and then another, until I was far into his personal space. His eyes were wide again.

"You're lying," I told him.

He swallowed hard. "Please, Sherlock, you think I'm… I'm… You've seen me date women, Sherlock. You know I'm not gay."

I leaned down, getting my face close enough to John's that his ears went beet red. I pretended I wasn't nervous about what I was going to say. Even though even the words about to come out of my mouth were caused by my _feelings_, I wasn't going to let all of my emotions get out of check.

So I said, "Well, John, that's too bad. Because _I_ love _you_."

* * *

**Alright, one more chapter to go, I believe! Thanks for reading everything so far! =]**


	6. Deductions of a Journalist

John looked up at me with his eyes wide and swallowed hard.

"I—um—you—are you feeling alright, Sherlock?"

I miraculously kept myself from rolling my eyes. "Of course I'm feeling alright."

"It's just… since when do you love anything?"

I opened my mouth to reply, but then shut it again, realising I had no response to that. Sure, I probably deserved that, but the comment…

God, what is wrong with me? Because the comment _hurt my feelings_.

(This was the reason I got rid of all these pesky emotions in the first place! Look, now I was sitting here getting offended by something John was saying. Sure, I got offended every once in a while, like if someone undermined my intelligence. But that makes sense, seeing as I'm cleverer than anyone I've ever met, or ever will meet. But being upset that someone doesn't think highly of me as a person? That never mattered before. But more than anything, I wanted John to think I was someone worth loving. More than _anything_, yes, I really said that. I repeat: WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?)

And, worse, John seemed to realise I was upset by the comment immediately, because he started backtracking only a moment later. "Well, I don't mean you don't love _anything_, I mean, I'm sure you love… you know… some things…" he trailed off into an awkward silence.

And as I looked down at him, I realised that I wasn't sure it was worth it to hurt like this all the time. So in my mind, I re-erected every wall, shoved back every emotion that I had been silly enough to let in for the last day.

I felt my face go into one of my usual scowls. "Love is a chemical imbalance in the losing side," I heard myself say mechanically. "I only said that to make you feel better. So am I moving back in or what?"

John looked at me for a moment longer, and I knew he didn't really believe me, not completely, but he didn't need to. He just needed to be angry enough with me that he didn't bother to dig into the issue any further.

"And why should I let you move in again?" he asked.

"Because it was never _your_ flat to keep me out of. I found it."

"Oh, come Sherlock, don't be childish."

"So am I staying or not?"

John looked at me for another silent minute. "Yeah, come back. Don't know why I missed you at all, but yeah, move back in."

And John, with an irritated huff, retreated back into the flat, and I watched him go with a sinking feeling in my gut.

* * *

I hadn't decided whether I wanted to tell Lestrade I was alive yet. I was still a little peeved that he could ever honestly believe that I was a fraud. Me! Anyone with a quarter of a brain cell should have been able to see that wasn't true—but, of course, it seemed that brain cells were in short supply in anyone I knew. And, if I just walked into Scotland Yard, I'd most likely get arrested. Anderson or Donovan would just _love_ that opportunity.

John was hardly talking to me. He was out most evenings.

(I tried not to think about it, but I was pretty sure it was with a woman. Sometimes, when he thought I wasn't paying attention, he would just watch me, and then I would eventually look over and he would just roll his eyes and continue with what he was doing.)

Then, it had been three weeks when John came home and this time I heard talking in the entryway. There was a woman, and the woman was not Mrs Hudson.

I glared at the door, only vaguely thinking about the fact that I was still in pyjamas and my blue robe. Good. Maybe I'd make her uncomfortable and she'd leave.

And then John came in, _laughing_, with some new girl.

(She was honey blonde and had a genuine smile. She was in business casual dress, so she obviously only just got back from work when she met up with John—worked at a local newspaper, by the smell of her. She'd been married before, by the tan-line on her finger. Could be that she was cheating, but it didn't seem likely, as she had a dog-tag around her neck, which implied she was a widower.)

"I know, I can't believe it either," the woman was saying. "Didn't say sorry or anything, just danced off like a madman."

"I know a few madmen," John said pointedly. "You hungry?" he added.

"Sure, yeah," she replied, and then she saw me and John's computer. "Hello," she said, "I've heard a lot about you. I'm Mary."

I glared for another moment. What on earth had he told her? "Well, if you've heard about me, then I suppose there's no need to say my name, is there?"

She didn't seem fazed. "Sherlock Holmes," she said. "Yes, I know a _lot_ about you."

"You would, being a journalist."

She smirked. "You must not have been a fraud after all, if you knew that just by looking at me."

"I also know your husband is dead," I added. "Died abroad. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Sherlock, don't be a prat. Mary, you don't have to answer that."

"He didn't die abroad, actually," she said. "This dog-tag was my brothers. My husband died of cancer, eight years ago."

I was surprised by her openness. I only brought it up to irritate her, or maybe offend her enough that she would leave, but she was actually playing along.

"Lung cancer?" I assumed.

She smiled a little. "How could you possibly guess that one?"

"I never guess," I replied, glancing quickly to John again. I was hoping that my quoting myself—things I had said to John in the past—so many times was getting his attention, and I was right.

"So, Mary," John said loudly, glaring at me, "we can go. I only came to grab my coat anyway."

"I don't mind staying. I like it here."

Both of us looked to her and said at the same time, "You do?"

She smiled. "Yes. It's cozy."

"There's eyeballs in the microwave," I said matter-of-factly. "And a head in the fridge."

She raised an eyebrow at me. "So you don't want me here, I get that. But why?"

I looked at her uncomfortably.

"What, you can't handle a taste of your own medicine?" John asked, sounding amused. "Yes, why don't you want her here, Sherlock?"

"Because you're distracting me."

"We are?" John asked. "I could just stay at her house for a while. Would that ma—"

"No!"

I hadn't meant to snap it. John looked surprised.

"I mean…" I muttered, not knowing how to backtrack. "I have to have my blogger."

John looked at me with his eyes narrowed. "Right."

"Yes… Yes, I thought so…" said Mary suddenly.

"What?" John asked.

"That you weren't straight."

"W—w—what? Of co—of course I am! Why would we be on a date if I weren't?"

She put her hands up in surrender. "I wasn't saying you don't like girls at all. It's just you and he obviously have some sort of history."

"We don't have any history," John said coldly. "He's my flatmate. And a bad one at that. Nothing more."

She rose an eyebrow, her suspicion obviously only piqued by John's denial.

I was actually quite intrigued by the woman. She was… well, she was one of the only people I had ever met that reminded me of… me. She could read people to a point, that much was clear. And then she didn't mind saying her assumptions aloud, even if it would anger somebody.

Thus, I could probably actually like her, under the right circumstances. But her being John's _date_, I didn't think we were going to get on. Considering looking at her made me grit my teeth in frustration.

"Okay," she said, "whatever you say. But I bet Sherlock doesn't feel the same."

My eyes snapped up to her. "Why do you care anyway?" I retorted.

"Because I like John, but I knew he was somehow involved with somebody else. I could tell by the way he interacted with me, like he was afraid to be open. He'd been hurt recently. And I kind of figured it was you."

Carnal anger was rising up in me, one of the emotions I thought I had kept down. They were trying to break the dam and flood out again. Because what right did this woman have being here, asking me about how I felt about John? What right did she have to read me like a book?

(Yes, I know, it's ironic, but I read other people with the firm assumption nobody's going to try to read me back. People knowing me is the last thing I want to happen. Enigmatic is the way I like to be. Sometimes John can guess those things, but that's different. Everything's different when John does it.)

"Sherlock didn't hurt me," John scoffed. "I'm fine. He's the one that can't feel a bloody thing."

"Oh, I don't think that's true," Mary said with a smirk. "Is it, Sherlock? So tell me, tell me really, why don't you want me here? If you have a good reason, I'll leave."

And I really couldn't tell you what possessed me to snap the way I did, but let me tell you, I _snapped_.

"Because you can't have John!" I hollered. "John brings home all these silly women, like you, but that still holds true! John's _mine_!"

Mary looked smug and John looked furious.

"Yours, is he?" she baited. "What do you want him for? To be your blogger?" And the infuriating part was, I knew she was doing it. I knew she was trying to anger me enough that I spouted out the truth, and still, I fell for it and couldn't shut up.

"John was never just my blogger," I snapped. "Come now, Mary, if you're _so_ clever, can't you tell? I've always loved him. He knows it too, and he only brought you here to make me angry because he wants me to admit how I feel!"

She looked over to John, who had gone from enraged to just downright shocked quickly.

"John," she said. "I knew since the first time you talked about Sherlock that something was happening here. Anyone who pays any attention could see it. I understand, I really do. Be happy. I'll see you around, alright?"

And at that, Mary smiled and left.

* * *

**So I lied. This is not the last chapter. I don't know when the last chapter is. I think the next one, but maybe not. I'll let you know.**


	7. Sherlock, Your Heart is Showing

**Okay, so this is the last. Really. Sorry it's short. I realised after I posted the last one that I didn't have as much more to say as I thought.**

* * *

John looked at me, breathing hard. "What, did you only say that to make her leave?" he snapped.

"Oh, just stop it, John," I retorted. "You and I both know that you have just been trying to get me to open up, but why should I when you don't even think I'm capable of love?"

I was eternally frustrated with myself for being so weak, so _human_, because I was letting my emotions get carried away again.

And John could see it. In his face, I knew he saw I was opening up again.

"You've just never showed that you are, Sherlock," he said, more gently than I expected. "How am I supposed to know if you don't show me?" I didn't reply, so he continued. "I'm sorry I hurt your feelings with what I said a few weeks back. I honestly didn't know it was possible to hurt your feelings—"

"John, what, do you think I'm a robot?"

"Well, you kind of act like one," he said matter-of-factly. "I figure that's how you want to be treated. I know, deep down, that you can care. You wouldn't do what you do just to show you're clever. Well, you would, but I know that's not the only reason you do it. But _love_, that's different."

"What's different then? What about love is too much for me to handle?"

John came forward. "Mutual respect. Humility."

"I do respect you," I said. He looked incredulous. "Really, I do. And humility… well, I could work on that…"

"And, you know, having a heart helps," he added.

"I do have a heart," I said, the words coming out before I allowed them. "John, don't you get it?"

"Get what?"

"_You're_ my heart. You always were."

John looked unable to think of anything to say.

Then he smiled. "Is this Sherlock Holmes admitting he has a heart?"

I smiled without meaning to. "You're never going to kiss me if I don't admit it out loud, so now I did."

John raised an eyebrow at me. "So am I supposed to kiss you now?"

"Right after you admit that you meant what you said that night. When you said you loved me."

John rolled his eyes. "You knew I meant that. I just wanted you to tell me the truth."

"I know you did," I sighed. "But what about Mary? Won't she be sad to be dumped?"

"You actually care about how Mary feels?"

"No, not much, but I figured I should mention it."

John chuckled. "I think she'll live. She told me to be happy… and you're what makes me happy. Even she knew that."

There was a short silence.

"Are you going to kiss me now?" I asked.

"Oh, god, yes," he replied, lunging forward and smashing his lips into mine. He pulled away fairly quickly though. "I've wanted to do that a long time," he said after a moment.

"Me too," I admitted.

"I really need to get all this on tape," John said.

"Shut up," I muttered, and I leaned in for another kiss.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, ladies and gents! I love reviews, so please leave them. If you like Johnlock, I've got a few more on my profile. Thanks again!**


End file.
